


we all end in the ocean

by redandgold



Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-10
Updated: 2018-02-10
Packaged: 2019-03-16 06:56:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13631040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redandgold/pseuds/redandgold
Summary: He is still, after all, here.





	we all end in the ocean

**Author's Note:**

  * For [raumdeuter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/raumdeuter/gifts).



> Love u bb!!!! im so sorry this is dumb n short and probably a horrible rendering of ur faves but I just wanted to do something at least so!! Love you lots, I hope this doesn't destroy all your faith in humanity, mucho hugs <3

“I'm going to break it, you know," Thomas says cheerfully.

Miro almost doesn't register it at first. His earphones are on and he's watching the clip in front of him, trying to splice together a snapshot of Mexico's defence that will guarantee their eventual success. In theory. Thomas has wrangled his way to the seat next to him, although Miro can't quite remember what part of policy stated that players could sit next to coaches and vice versa. He doesn't question it. He's learnt many times that it's quite pointless to question Thomas after he's made up his mind.

"Miro. Hey." Thomas nudges him in the arm. "Are you listening to me?"

"What?" Miro says absently, taking out one earphone and turning to glance at him.

"I said I'm going to break it." Thomas grins, the glint of his sharp teeth made strange in the low lighting of the plane. "Your record."

Miro blinks at him. “You don't care about these things."

"True," Thomas says. "But wouldn't you rather me than, I dunno. Ronaldo?"

"I'd much rather Ronaldo," Miro says dryly. "I don’t have to see him half as often."

Thomas breaks into a loud snort and Miro almost forgets he's on his way to the first World Cup he won't be playing in for sixteen years.

 

*

 

He remembers only snatches of the first one: the baggy shirt he'd – is _dream_ too strong a word – wanted to wear, the sickly green of the pitch, the wide eyes of everyone who'd come to see them. The anthem blared over the PA system. He can see the Brazilians, shining like lights. The cup on the podium as they walk past, medals of the wrong colour round their necks. Olli on the ground, back against the goalpost. Micha in the stands with his shirt untucked.

But also, in all of that: breathing. Being there. The ball off his head, the sound of delirium from the fans, 8-0 bright on the scoreboard. Five in all, joint second-top scorer in his first tournament. _Salto-_ Klose. How solid the ground is when he lands.

 

*

 

Moscow is so vast that Moscow Country Club isn’t actually _in_ the city. “We’re actually in the Krasnogorsky administrative and municipal district,” Mats tells everyone who’ll listen, most likely because he spent the hour-long bus ride on Wikipedia and needs to prove it wasn’t a complete waste of time. “There are thirty-six of them in Moscow Oblast – what’s an Oblast, Joshua? Good question – ”

The club itself is nice, even if it isn’t anything new. Rolling hillocks, fountains, rich people playing golf. They sit down to dinner and it’s Italian fare, which Miro eyes with some suspicion before remembering that it can’t happen again.

A multitude of reasons. His knees are probably shot right through at this point.

He looks at the other tables. All of them are laughing and joking, shoving elbows into each other. Thomas catches his gaze and gives him a big, sloppy wink. Miro rolls his eyes and returns to his food, his shoulder shifting with a restlessness he doesn’t know how to explain.

 

*

 

Almost immediately after dinner there's a knock on his door. The only reason Miro lets Thomas in is because everyone would see him lounging outside in the corridor anyhow, possibly doing something both stupid and inappropriate. He's sure Thomas is still going to do something both stupid and inappropriate, but at least no one's going to see past the door.

Thomas pushes him inside immediately, one arm around his shoulder and his lips pressed against Miro's, hot and hungry and aching. "Thomas," Miro manages to breathe out, but Thomas takes no note; the other hand shuts the door behind them and Miro's back is flat against the wall, pinned there by an obnoxious goblin who, unfortunately, is one of the best kissers Miro's ever had.

"Thomas," he says again. This time Thomas listens. He pulls his head back and cocks it and Miro hates that look, because it's one of those things that's convinced half the team to abandon all semblance of reason. "Thomas, we shouldn't be doing this."

"Why?"

"I'm your coach," Miro mutters, although the edge of conviction is seriously damaged by the fact that Thomas has just pushed his fingers under his shirt, making him breathe in sharply the way you shouldn't be when you're giving a lecture. "There has to be some professionalism about this."

"I'm never professional," Thomas points out, his fingers wandering to Miro's waistband. Miro sucks in another breath. "It's not like I intend on starting now."

"Thomas."

"Your imminent orgasm is not going to strengthen your argument in any way," Thomas says, winking horrendously. "You really need to work on your debate skills, coach. Maybe I could give you a couple of lessons."

He's reached around to the front of Miro's trousers and is palming the front of Miro's briefs, quick and deft. Miro shudders, reaches out and grabs Thomas's wrist.

"Will you – "

"Listen for once?" Thomas pulls a face. "Unlikely. Nothing's changed, opa. I'm still you and you're still me." He raises an eyebrow. "Unless you've morphed into Herr Herberger recently and I haven't noticed, which is unlikely, because I'm very observant."

"I haven't morphed into Sepp Herberger," Miro mutters with some exasperation. Thomas beams.

"There you go. So what's the problem?"

Miro can't think of a counter-argument for that. He can't actually think after that, Thomas unzipping his trousers and fishing him out, cock half hard and already aching. There's a point of brilliant, blinding light when Thomas goes down on his knees and Miro bites his lip to keep quiet, digs his fingers into Thomas's curls, holds them there.

It isn't twenty-eighteen. It's Poland and they've just been knocked out of the Euros. Miro remembers sitting in the empty changing room, remembers Thomas barging in, eyes bright and hollow, mouth set into a thin, determined line. Everything is quiet. Only their breaths cut through the air.

 

*

 

"Are you gonna miss it?"

They're on the bed. Thomas has unceremoniously draped himself all over Miro, head on his stomach and the rest of his limbs in positions Miro can't even entirely figure out. He's tilted his head to look up at Miro, his face sharp and angular, inscrutable in the dark.

"I like coaching," Miro says, evenly. Thomas laughs.

" _Bzzzzt._ I'm sorry, we don't accept non-answers on this show. Nor do we accept any _um_ s, _ehm_ s, or otherwise. Please try again."

"Um – "

"For heaven's sakes, coach, don't you know how to follow instructions?"

Miro grins, then, the smile pulled out of him helpless. Thomas catches this and grins back at him. Flops up to touch his forehead against Miro's almost irreverently. He leans back. They hold like that for a moment; Miro flicks his eyes to meet Thomas's gaze, and then Thomas lies back, exhaling slowly.

"Never mind," he says. "You can tell me after we win."

 

 *

 

A cauldron of noise and it's freezing. Rafters packed for another cup but it's the same old story, really, a rectangle of bright green grass and a new shirt with old colours. Why does it matter so much, Miro thinks, scuffing his foot on the edge of the pitch, if four years later any other country is going to win it? It's a wheel that turns without stopping. He broke someone else's record and someone else will break his.

The players line up in two neat rows. Miro stands on the other side for once, mouth slightly dry, shifting his weight from one leg to the other. The tie scratches at his throat. He catches Thomas's eye without necessarily looking for it. Thomas gives him a big, sloppy wink. Further down, where maybe he thinks Miro can't see, he's got his hand curled into a fist.

Miro blinks. Four years and four years and four years, but what he wouldn't do to taste it again.

He won't, in that way. He can't. He's old and tired and his knees are probably shot through at this point. He's not going to magically pull on a shirt and jog onto the pitch, and anyway their players are far too good to give him a place in the side, unless there's an opening for a statue in the five yard perimeter. I could do that, he thinks, grins to himself quiet.

The anthems blare over the PA system, one after the other. Everyone in the stadium has their eyes on them.

Miro puts his hands in his pockets and watches the shirts disperse, eleven in white across the field. Feels the burning creep up his throat. His knees are shot right through and he steps back and takes a seat. He is still, after all, here. Here and breathing and feeling alive.

The referee blows the whistle and someone toes the ball into play. The ball that is round and the game that lasts ninety minutes. Look. The cup on the podium. Look. Thomas is in space. 

**Author's Note:**

> \- title from the River of Dreams by GOOD OLD BILLY TEH KID  
> \- Miro's first WC was 2002, they lost the final to the Brazilians, [Olli against the goalpost](http://slam.canoe.com/Slam/2002/06/30/3063060AU.jpg), Micha was suspended and got his runner's up medal with this epitome of ['I got a team to the final and all i got was this lousy t-shirt'](<a%20href=)  
> \- Miro finished second-top scorer with Rivaldo, the first player to score five headers in a world cup, and got his hat trick in an 8-0 win over Saudi Arabia.  
> \- They call him salto-klose or klose salto 'cause of his summersaultin'!  
> \- [Moscow Country Club](http://www.fifa.com/worldcup/news/y=2018/m=2/news=team-base-camps-for-2018-fifa-world-cuptm-confirmed.html) is the swanky venue the Germs have got for 2018, and yes, all of Mats's information came straight off of wiki  
> \- Did I look up what kind of food they serve at Moscow Country Club? [Of course I did!](http://www.moscow-hotels.net/le-meridien-moscow-country-club/dining/winter-garden-restaurant.aspx)  
> \- I watched too many Miro interviews but he does like to shift his shoulders a lot, doesn't he  
> \- Italy didn't.....mrgh it feels disrespectful to say  
> \- Sepp Herberger, purveyor of 90 minute games and round balls, was Germany's manager when they won their first world cup  
> \- Germany lost the Euro 08 final in Vienna to Spain (we do not speak of where England was)  
> \- [EHM....](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2aHEW2h8JFE)  
> \- Can Miro score beyond five yards? More news at 11  
> \- for the record the cup on the podium is ENGLAND'S, ~~CUE ME JAMMING TO A THREE LIONS / WORLD IN MOTION MASHUP WHILE GARETH SOUTHGATE SPINS TURNTABLES IN THE BACKGROUND~~ if the podium is a pub table and the cup is a mug of beer everyone's drinking to drown their sorrows  
>  \- I refer you to [this article](www.theversed.com/40720/miroslav-klose-germany-goalscorer/) which has the greatest description of Miro's somersault of all time   
> \- Thanks for reading <3


End file.
